Can't Touch This (Can't Touch This #1)

“Marriage? Jesus, who said anything about marriage?” I shoved Pikachu into her arms. “God, woman, if you think bringing around a few dinged-up pooches is a proposal, I better get out of here stat.”

A soft giggle sounded behind me.

Ah, yes. The receptionist. The impressionable young thing watching and listening to every erotic charged look between me and this stuck-up vet.

I didn’t do young girls. Even though Ms. Fairfax was young, she’d lost that idealistic edge—the one that held fucking unicorns in their eyes believing that any guy they met was the one.

I wasn’t the one.

I doubted I’d ever drop my guard enough to be anyone’s one.

But I had been willing to share a good time with this sexy woman currently cuddling my adopted sausage ever since I set eyes on her.

Backing away, she waved at the consultation room I’d been in half a dozen times already this month. “We can continue this discussion while helping your little friend.”

My eyes glued to her ass. “Can I come too, or do you intend to hold my hot dog ransom?”

“Depends? Are you going to garnish him with chilli and mustard?”

I couldn’t stop it. My lips twisted into a smirk. “Dunno. If I did, would it entice you to go to dinner with me? He could be the main course. And I have plenty of ideas for dessert.”

She slammed to a stop in the doorway, her eyes wide as the plate where such dinner would be served.

I tensed, waiting for her to shoot me down. The inevitable ‘I have a boyfriend, asshole. How dare you step on his territory’ or ‘I’ve already been pissed on by another tom cat thanks very much.’

However, she looked me up and down in the way only a woman can full of scorn and inconvenience, shoved Pikachu back into my arms, and headed into the room without me.

Well, that went well.

Following her into the small, sterile box where a stainless-steel bench sat in the centre, I did my best not to stare. Garish charts of canine and feline innards pasted on the walls, all while I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

I followed the contours of her legs, hips, and ass, before chasing her around the bench to the computer where she typed in my name and brought up the many files I’d opened due to my unusual occupation.

My gut tightened as she bit her lip, studying the screen. “Has this one been in before?”

“No.” Hoisting the little wiener higher into my arms, he leaned into me for comfort. “This is Pikachu. He’s new. Just like all the rest.”

She nodded distractedly as she came closer and reached for the dog. Just before she touched him, she remembered whatever decorum the vet’s handbook said they had to obey. “Oh, may I?”

“May you what?”

“Touch him?”

“Touch my wiener?”

She scowled. “Yes.”

“You’ve already held him. I think you’re past asking for permission.” My lips twitched as stress trickled down my spine. There was something about this girl. She riled me up—made me want to act like an idiotic ten-year-old and pull her hair to tell her I liked her.

Be an adult.

Get a grip.

The idiotic ten-year-old inside me won. “You have to say it properly.”

“Say what?”

“Can I touch your wiener, Mr. Carson.”